


The Last Time They Met

by aftertherain



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-25
Updated: 2010-02-25
Packaged: 2017-10-07 13:07:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/65434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aftertherain/pseuds/aftertherain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Brad was eighteen the first time he met Nate Fick. Brad had disliked him immediately on principle alone.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	The Last Time They Met

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Porn Battle IX, using the prompt '**pyrrhic**'
> 
> Originally posted [here.](http://oxoniensis.dreamwidth.org/26521.html?thread=3273881&format=light)

Brad was eighteen the first time he met Nate Fick. He'd taken one look at the preppy clothes, the hair grown slightly long, and the gym bag slung over a shoulder and surmised: _transfer student, rich kid from the east coast._ One of those scholar-athletes, the kind of overachiever who always knew with certainty where he was headed in life—Brad had disliked him immediately on principle alone.

New kid really shouldn't have stood at the edge of the pool talking to their coach with undivided attention, that much was common sense. The splash had been loud and immensely satisfying, water drops soaking the clipboard and sign-in sheets. Some of the returning swimmers emerging from the locker room had whooped and clapped as if hazing the new recruit at the beginning of the season was normal, when there was no such tradition in a loner's sport. Coach Dobson knew this, but he only shook his head and tried to salvage the papers.

"Sorry," Brad had offered, leaning down with one hand outstretched. He'd already changed into speedos, so getting soaked in the event of retaliation wouldn't be a big deal.

"Hey, no problem—" Fick had replied, wiping water away from his eyes and ignoring the opportunity to get even by climbing out of the pool on his own, jacket drooping off his shoulders and the strap of his flooded gym bag caught in the crook of his elbow, chlorinated water still streaming off his hair. The "asshole" part was left unspoken, but Brad heard it anyway. He thought it was the beginning of a beautiful friendship and said so out loud; the coach made him swim ten extra laps for the sarcasm.

* * *

Six months might feel like a long time to most seniors, but not to Brad. As long as he didn't get expelled, Brad had more or less settled on reporting to MCRD San Diego in June—this was something no one else knew, not even his parents since he hadn't found the courage to tell them yet. As for keeping his head down ... Brad didn't court trouble, he just had no patience for bigots who were supposed to educate him and his peers. He knew that some of his teachers thought he should've been expelled last year for fighting, just like the other student. Few bothered to find out what actually happened, but Brad would've lied if they asked anyway. So once in a while Brad lost his cool in class and couldn't keep his smartass remarks to himself, but he was no stranger to detention by then.

It was tough to break out of a vicious cycle when others' expectations of him coincided with his own—scarily low and self-fulfilling.

Six months were just long enough to get to know someone and learn the best ways to get under his skin, enough to irritate Fick on a daily basis until swim season ended and they were surprised to find themselves still hanging around each other like a bad ear infection. They shot hoops after school and insulted each other's pathetic forms; they left runners in their dust when they got bored with helping Coach D set up hurdles, trying to beat each other's lap time on land instead of water and causing widespread confusion since neither of them was actually on the track and field team. It became normal to expect Fick close by, even outside of the single class they shared. At the end of February, they stayed after school working on their chemistry project together because no sane person would partner up with Brad Colbert, not when their AP Chem teacher had a vendetta against him. Too bad Nate hadn't been at the school long enough to comprehend how fucked up Brad's situation really was.

_You should've picked someone else_ were words Brad never said to Nate, but was tempted to more than once. The grades didn't matter to Brad, but he knew that Nate's sister was in some prestigious med school back east, and in a few years Nate might consider following in her footsteps—_to make a positive impact on people's lives,_ Nate had explained. For once Brad hadn't argued about worthy causes and front lines because he didn't want to be the one to change Nate's quiet conviction.

Sometimes Brad would catch Nate watching him as they worked. Those eyes never missed anything. It was possible Nate understood perfectly the risk of choosing Brad as lab partner and just didn't care.

Six months were enough for Brad to change his mind and accept that Nate Fick really was a decent guy, but not enough for that knowledge to make a difference. And before long, the world around Brad had accelerated from the frenzy of April, with everyone hearing back from colleges, into the surrealism of May. Soon, the final exams, too, were in the dust behind him. Everyone else was moving on to their next port of call; for what it was worth, Brad was finally free.

* * *

Brad was on his way to getting truly fucking wasted at some party the night before graduation when he noticed that Nate was there too, stepping past the smokers gathered on the porch and stopping to talk to a few senior guys before picking his way over to Brad at the table overflowing with plastic cups. The music was too loud, so instead of asking what Nate was doing there, Brad wordlessly handed Nate a bottle of beer plus a shot glass filled to the brim, poured another shot for himself and promptly knocked it back. Nate wasn't drinking, so Brad took back that shot and finished it for him. Then another, until he could feel heat sliding down his throat into his stomach. Until he could summon the courage to look at Nate without wanting to put his fist through the glass table.

_Take it easy,_ Nate said from too close, looking up into Brad's face with eyes far too sober for Brad to deal with. Strong hands with long fingers and lightly scraped knuckles took the alcohol away from Brad, as if Brad's having a little to drink on the first night of his freedom was something that concerned Nate. Unlike Brad, he'd probably never fucked up in his life before. Fuck him anyway.

This guy was not his friend, Brad thought. He really should remember that. He took a steady step away from the warmth of Nate's shoulder to stare him down. Brad squinted to focus on Nate's eyebrows, raised in question, then on his nose and followed gravity down to the worried set to Nate's mouth, and tried to recall all of the reasons he'd disliked Nate in the first place: his composure, his intelligence, that unwavering sense of knowing himself and his certainty about his future.

The truth was that their friendship was never really the surprising twist others made it out to be. If Brad was being honest with himself, he hadn't disliked Nate at first sight—not at all.

The party was only getting started, so Brad had no idea why or _when_ he'd followed Nate outside, except the smoke and noise were behind them now, and the night air like a shocking dash of ice water on his overheated skin. Nate had taken his car keys and was pushing him toward the passenger side of his car. He sobered slightly as he breathed in the cold. The graduation that was tomorrow was now today.

He still hadn't told his parents he'd missed the deadline to reply to the few schools that had offered him admission. He hadn't told them that the Colbert family's scholarly tradition would be broken by their adopted son joining the Corps.

"I don't want to go home," Brad heard himself say as the headlights of another car briefly illuminated the curve of Nate's ear. He seemed to have spoken right into a pocket of silence as the roar of the other engine faded and the night quieted once more around them. His hand came up belatedly to his mouth—he truly hadn't meant to reveal that.

"You don't have to," Nate said.

* * *

Nate lived alone in a spacious but plain studio apartment, and that was surprising. No overbearing parents, empty of decorations, it was just a place to sleep between school work and swim practice. Brad leaned in and kissed him right inside the door as Nate was turning on the lights, swaying a little on his feet to match Nate mid-movement. Nate froze, and this part was no surprise to Brad at all.

Whatever Nate felt about him, he didn't push Brad away, he hadn't punched Brad yet and their lips were still touching like Nate was trying to find the least hurtful way to turn him down; this was certainly an improvement over the last time, when Brad's oldest friend—the guy he'd trusted above all else—had swung at him before Brad finished speaking and punched him hard enough to knock his head back. They'd fought, his best friend had been expelled and taken with him the only girl Brad had ever liked. The three of them had been close since childhood; they could've taken on the world once, before everything fell apart. Brad's skull hurt just remembering it, but he forced his lips to remain steady, wandering over to the corner of Nate's mouth, slowly kissing down Nate's jaw to his throat, pressing his nose against the warm skin there and back up to the bitten bottom lip until Nate started kissing back with a soft groan into Brad's mouth. Even inebriated, Brad could taste the bitterness of his triumph.

This marked the end of the burning wreck that was the last two years of his high school life, and for one more night Brad didn't want to think about consequences. He wanted to feel Nate's skin flush against his own, long muscles and shoulder blades quivering under his touch; he wanted to know what sounds Nate made when he came. He wanted Nate, pure and simple, no matter the cost.

Brad used his weight to press Nate back against the narrow couch, fingers wrapped around Nate's wrists keeping Nate's arms pinned high above his head, but as Nate worried the swell of Brad's bottom lip lightly between his teeth and thrust his tongue rhythmically against Brad's, Brad's fingers loosened their hold, sliding down to grip Nate's biceps, to touch his collar bones and lean stomach and the unwieldy buckle of his belt. The whole couch shifted as Nate tried to kick off his jeans, the cuff of the denim tangled around one ankle, and Nate ended up kneeing Brad in the quadriceps where it easily bruised. Apologies were offered between gasps, but Brad was so hungry for touch he didn't feel the pain. He lowered his head to suck kisses into Nate's jaw and feel Nate's rushed exhalations stir his hair. They had their hands on each other's dicks, stroking the fluid at the tip over each other and smearing it between their sticky fingers. Brad was stroking hard and fast and yearning to accelerate right over the edge, but Nate, his mouth opening a few times before he found his voice, slowed them both down with a roughly whispered, "Brad, hey."

Brad was ready to come his brains out but Nate was telling him _this_ was the way he liked it, slow and intense, showing it to Brad with each deliberate stroke of his fist over Brad's cock, slick thumb circling the tip and sliding back down, his other hand cupping Brad's balls and squeezing. _Slow._ Brad sucked air into his lungs and screwed his eyes shut in concentration, sweat beading down his chin and dripping onto Nate. He intentionally slowed his pace to match Nate's, pressed as close to Nate as two people could be while jacking each other off and breathing each other's air, until Nate arched up against him silently, fingers tightening on Brad's hips, and came all over their stomachs.

He woke up in Nate's bed when the air conditioner cycled on.

It was sometime past four in the morning. He'd only been asleep for two hours.

Brad stumbled into the bathroom in the darkness, closing the door quietly behind him before flicking on the lights, and ducked his head under the faucet to drink a sip of water. His head still felt woozy but he was more sober now; it was fucking terrifying in comparison. He avoided looking at his bloodshot eyes in the mirror, and turned on the shower to rinse off the dried come over his groin and on the inside of his thighs. He had a bruise on his hipbone and what looked like bite marks on his forearms. The room filled with steam as hot water pressure beat down on him. A shower in the middle of the night, that strange time when most parties had died down and his mind was a quiet place. He used Nate's soap, recognizing the smell from after swim practice, from hanging around Nate the past six months.

Nate joined him in the shower just as he remembered he needed to wash the soap suds out of his hair. There was an arm wrapped tightly around his chest, Nate's neck and chest plastered slickly to his back. He heard Nate ask, _You sober?_ in his ear. Brad's eyes were closed; he'd almost fallen asleep on his feet. In this strange hour where the rules did not apply, Brad turned and kissed Nate over his slightly parted lips, licking along the creases the pillow left on Nate's cheek, and ended up sucking Nate off in the shower. A long and drawn out blowjob while the warm spray beat down on his shoulders, while Nate's fingers combed through his wet hair, gripping tightly as he came in Brad's mouth. Brad's knees ached from kneeling on the tiles by the end.

Brad never made it to his own graduation.

* * *

The problem with getting what you wanted is that you lose track of what you'd given up along the way. Brad joined the Corps after high school and never looked back. It was the best decision he'd ever made, but not without its sacrifices. From then on he never looked at another man with anything approaching interest, he _couldn't_, but why would he want to? They were all a bunch of whiskey tango retards, but they were his to insult and his to train. The Corps was where he belonged.

Brad thought he could do the same with Nate. Take the part of him that had been Nate's, the Brad Colbert that Nate had soothed and kissed and come all over, and pack it safely away.

Except he couldn't. Whatever Brad thought he'd won from Nate that night, Nate had taken from him in equal measure, with lasting repercussions. Brad thought about the form of Nate's body cutting through the pool, the angle of his elbows delving into the stroke and the way the lane dividers scrolled by the waves in his trail, all throughout the long dry months of boot camp. A few years later, he thought of Nate while he was on libo in Australia and sleeping with a whore every night, wondering which Ivy League Nate had chosen and whether he'd pursued medicine, whether the certainty Nate possessed had held firm for him. Brad hoped that it had.

In his first tour in Afghanistan, Brad jacked off to the image of Nate's bare chest above him, grinding against Brad and driving him further up the bed with the force of each thrust, wrinkling the sheets against Brad's back as sweat slid down Nate's throat to pool in the dip of his collar bone, a faint gleaming line that was proof of physical exertion in the pale light from Nate's window in the moments before daybreak.

Brad wished he could say that he got what he wanted from Nate that one night and moved on with his life, but he knew he lost more than he could afford.

In June Brad was back at Pendleton, hiding in the boiler room to work with his laptop balanced on his knees when Ray found him with uncanny instinct, bragging to him about psyching out the new LT. It was hot enough without Ray crowding him; Brad shoved him away irritably and filtered out Ray's rambling—_Man, you missed all the fun! Gunny couldn't find you when we welcomed the cherry lieutenant, so we made an excuse about your perverted ass hiding away in your depraved sex dungeons after chow to fuck computers or anything with a microchip. But dude, the LT didn't blink an eye and just said he'd keep his gadgets locked up when he introduced himself_—

That level of goatfucking retardese didn't deserve a reply, so Brad didn't bother with one.

Someone cleared his throat behind them and Ray's mouth clamped shut all of a sudden. "Thank you, Ray. He's here now."

Brad's hands stilled on the keyboard. For years he couldn't get Nate out of his head no matter how he tried, but all the background noise faded to silence now, even the hum of the backup generators and Ray's half-assed apologies. It was the last indrawn breath before a blast of cold air and the rush of parachuting out into an open sky to free-fall 30,000 feet to the earth. When Brad felt he was ready, he shut his laptop and looked up.


End file.
